


Seeing Double

by tcarroll_12



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26654017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tcarroll_12/pseuds/tcarroll_12
Summary: An unusual and frightening circumstance forces Hardy and Miller to come to terms with their feelings about each other.
Relationships: Alec Hardy & Ellie Miller, Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller
Comments: 19
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> out of all the love-confession stories I've written, for some reason this one remains my favorite.
> 
> Note: as explained further on, the "glove" refers to the (fictional obviously) abduction Hardy suffered in connection to a case, in which two of his fingers are cut off and subsequently replaced with a bionic replica. (:

When Hardy awoke at half seven and checked his phone, there were 6 texts, all from DS Miller, the first one having been sent at half three this morning.

Six texts. _Bloody hell, woman…_ He scrubbed as much sleep out of his eyes as he could, fumbled round the nightstand for his reading glasses, and put them on. 

Whatever he was expecting, it was not this.  


_[03:25] I know you’ll never read these, and I’m sorry for being soppy, we don’t do soppy do we? But it’s the only way I can cope right now._

_[3.27] I should have told you everything. Maybe CS could have made an exception for us. Lord knows if anyone deserves a break from Joe, it’s us. Now I will always regret not being brave enough to say everything. Even if you didn’t feel the same way back, it would have been off my chest._

_[3.37] I love you. I don’t know when it happened, or whether that even matters and I know it’s too late now and you pissed me off so so much but you were there for me during the trial when I felt so alone and I know I should have told you this but Sandbrook was the thing I needed to stay grounded during the whole thing. I felt needed and…you helped me and that’s what kept me from losing my mind._

_[3.40] And of course now I feel guilty because maybe if I’d have told you then everything would be alright_

_[3.45] I love you and I’m so so sorry_

_[3.46] Goodbye._

  
Alec’s blood froze in his veins. His pacemaker fired once as his trembling fingers hesitated on the screen, breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

This couldn’t be happening. Not Miller. She wouldn’t— Even more cruel was the fact that she’d admitted that _she loved him_ , and now he’d never get the chance to say the same. He’d vehemently denied it every time it came up in his head, but now, too late, he could deny it no longer. Lost for words, adrift on an ocean of grief, his thumb gently rubbed the screen above those three words.

Then, without really thinking, tears prickling at his eyes, stomach churning the meager contents of last night's dinner, he pressed Call.

Then he clamped his eyes shut and waited to hear her voicemail, realizing now it was all he had left of her. He leaned back against the headboard, the tears starting to fall as the phone rang.

Ellie…

  


A heartbroken, red-eyed Ellie Miller sat on the black couch in DI Hardy’s office, completely numb to the bustle outside as life moved along. She’d been sitting inside the office, lights off, door and blinds shut, trying to make sense of everything. Of anything. After some time had passed, CS Jenkinson had come in quietly, had sat down beside her to mourn the shocking death of the inspector with her in silent solidarity.

Ellie couldn’t stop reading the note. Brian hadn’t allowed her to take it from the scene, but he had permitted her to take a photo of it.

_Alec Hardy was dead._

Another tear rolled down Ellie’s cheek.

By suicide, no less.

She thought back to something Susan Wright had said when they were interrogating her in regards to Danny’s murder. _Death. Once it gets its claws in you…_

_It never lets go._

Out of nowhere, her mobile rang, jarring both women out of their respective thoughts, startling Ellie so bad she yelped and threw the phone across the room like it had burned her. CS Jenkinson, having had a milder reaction, retrieved it from where it lay buzzing on the floor.

“Ellie, it’s his number,” she murmured incredulously, then answered the ring. “CS Jenkinson for DS Miller—”

In his room, Hardy’s stomach dropped like a rock. His hand flew to his mouth. If Jenkinson had answered, that could only mean the worst. A choked sob escaped his mouth without warning, heart lurching in shock. No, not Ellie, _not his Ellie—_

“Hello?” Jenkinson’s voice sounded strained. Hardy fought hard to turn off the emotions, so he could force himself to ask the question he really didn’t want to. Clenching the hand at his mouth as hard as he could, he forced the words out of his mouth: “This is DI Hardy. What happened to DS Miller?”

“ _Alec??”_ Jenkinson was in utter disbelief. On the black couch in his office, Ellie’s head snapped up, eyes laser-focused on the chief super.

Alec swallowed thickly. “She sent me texts—”

“You’re alive?”

“Do you know—” The phrase caught him off guard. “Am _I_ alive?? Yes, I’m asking about _Miller—_ ” His voice broke, the force of his grief clamping down on his speech as it swept over him like a tsunami. His heart, having felt full and whole for the first time since Sandbrook had fallen apart, was in irreparable condition now. Ellie had impossibly wormed her way under his carefully built defences, and now left a black hole behind that sucked everything that mattered into its vortex. Served him right for thinking life would start treating him fairly—

“Ellie’s right here,” came Jenkinson's confused voice, breaking into Alec's spiraling thoughts.

“Wha—” _she’s alive??_

“Here—”

And then he heard it: _“Alec??”_

Just as powerful as the grief, a new wave of emotion, this time relief, washed over him. He’d never particularly liked his first name, but in that moment no other word in any language had sounded more welcome, more heavenly, more… _right._

He’d give almost anything to hear it again.

“Ellie,” he whispered in awe, tears of joy rolling down over his jutting cheekbones. Not even questioning the use of her first name, which he’d only ever said once, as he sat across from her in the interview room. Right before he’d told her Joe Miller had been responsible for Danny’s death. “You’re alright…”

“What do you mean? Course I’m alright,” she managed. Her voice was wet and shaky and sorrowful. “Well, I wasn’t this morning, but…” In his office, she ran a hand over her face. “SOCO called me to a scene at 3 this morning, I was expecting to see you there, but—” The memory of Hardy’s lifeless body on the floor, glassy eyes empty and dull, taunted her again as it had so often that morning, and the sentence broke off in a sob.

“But…” Hardy prodded gently.

“It was you,” she forced herself to explain, bolstered by the sound of his voice. “The victim, it looked _exactly like you.”_

The conviction in Miller’s voice made Hardy’s blood run cold.

“It even had a glove like yours on the right hand.”

“It was more than just an uncanny resemblance, Alec,” CS Jenkinson added. “I don’t know how it’s possible, especially now that you’re very obviously alive and well, but… it was literally you on the floor of that shack.”

Hardy was at a loss for words. How could such a thing even be possible?

Then Miller added, in a forlorn voice that sucked the breath out of him, “There was a note, sir.

“A suicide note.”

  


Hardy almost dropped the phone. No wonder Miller had sent those texts; she thought he’d gone and committed suicide. 

“Ach, Miller, I’m sorry,” he offered quietly, because what else does one even say in this kind of situation? 

He heard her sniff. “It was in your bloody hand-writing and everything.” 

Hardy shook his head. This was getting weirder by the minute. But now that his worry for Ellie had subsided, the analytical side of him effortlessly stepped up to the plate. “Is the body still at the crime scene?” 

“No, sir, they’ve gone and moved it to the morgue by now.” 

“Meet me there. I have to see this for myself. If it’s as like to me as you say, they might be able to use my input anyway.” 

Ellie nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see her. “Er—right. See you soon.” There was a whole novel full of things she wanted to say, but Jenkinson was still there beside her, so she awkwardly ended the conversation. 

Hardy stared down at the phone as if it had grown antennae, then threw off the covers and stared at the wall as if it would tell him who had done this and why. After a moment, he shook himself like a wet dog and got dressed. The relief that Miller wasn’t dead crossed his mind again and he froze, remembering her texts. 

_I love you._

He would be remiss, not to mention incurring the wrath of his colleague, to take that lightly. 

Right, you can deal with that later, the detective brain said with a twinge of annoyance. If someone impersonated you and faked your _death,_ that kind of takes precedence, just a bit. 

In less than five minutes Hardy’s black SUV was roaring down the highway, lights flashing, heart pounding. He had no idea what to expect when he arrived, but somehow knowing that he would see DS Miller very much alive and well spurred him on even more so than seeing this supposed clone of his on the table.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two detectives meet up after their scare. What exactly awaits Hardy in the morgue? 
> 
> And how will they navigate Miller’s confession of love for our favorite Scottish knob?

He’d arrived first, so he stood outside the entrance, arms crossed, legs splayed at shoulder width, every muscle in his body taut and tense with anticipation.

Then he saw Miller’s station wagon pull in to the car park, and the moment he made eye contact with her all the strength drained from his spindly legs; nonchalantly he tipped back against the masonry and shoved his hands, which had been clenching his forearms, into his pockets. To his annoyance, Jenkinson had come along too, which meant that even in these circumstances he would have to remain calm and exert self-control.

But to his surprise, she merely placed a hand on his shoulder, expressed her relief that he was not in fact dead, and told them not to tarry too long outside. “This means that someone has not only impersonated you, but faked your death. We need to catch this person as soon as possible,” she concluded, and shut the door behind her.

No sooner had the door swung to than Hardy whirled around to face Miller, just in time for the DS to come charging full-force at him and throw her arms around his neck. He stumbled back, but for a split second he noticed very intently that Miller was _hugging_ him, and instead of it being awkward…

He threw his own arms around her too, awestruck by how happy he was to see her, how _right_ it felt. How solid and warm she was. Every emotion, every non-platonic, unprofessional thought he deftly side-stepped whenever he was around her surged to the forefront of his mind, almost choking him as everything clicked into place. Ah, balls, he was getting soppy, he realized as unbidden tears slid suddenly down his cheeks.

Then he heard her sniff wetly against his shoulder and squeeze him tighter, and he decided he couldn’t give a rat’s arse. Sop it was, then. He sighed deeply, turned his face in toward her messy ponytail, and locked himself in tight against her as well. The ridiculousness of it all hit him suddenly, and he laughed.

Miller pinched him with one hand. “It’s not funny, you knob!” she cried. “I thought you were dead!!”

“No, I just… I guess we _do_ do soppy now.”

Ellie swallowed and finally gathered enough courage to pull back, scared as she was that if she let go he would disappear and she never really would see him again. She looked at him, really looked, and was startled to see tear tracks on Hardy’s own usually-sour face. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you there,” she finally said softly, swallowing round the lump in her throat. “Sort of a wake-up call, of the worst kind. I thought… it was too late.”

Hardy swallowed too. This was the defining moment, he realized. Whether it went well or awful, their relationship was on a razor’s edge, and there was no going back to the Before. There was only the After, but what kind of after would it be? He wanted it and didn’t want it, wanted to kiss her and also run back to his car and drive very far away. “Aye, me too,” he finally murmured. “Those texts— bloody hell, Miller, I thought you were the one had gone and killed yourself!” His voice broke on the last words, and he swiped at his eyes once before returning to his stronghold on her.

Ellie’s lips parted in surprise. Then she cocked an eyebrow, rereading them in her memory, and understood. “Okay, I can definitely sort of see that now,” she assented.

Shifting his slender hands to her shoulders, Hardy looked his partner in the eyes and made himself speak. “Those texts… We have to deal with this right now, Miller.”

Fear blossomed in her eyes, her stomach. She stiffened in his grasp, not liking his wording at all, hoping against hope that it was just his awkward way with words when it came to matters of the heart. Men usually were, but Hardy… he was a special breed of awkward. Not without reason, of course, but still.

She chose her words very, very carefully. “How do you mean?”

Hardy’s nostrils flared as he struggled to find the words he wanted. “I don’t want to assume that they were to be taken lightly,” he finally uttered slowly, like tiptoeing across a frozen lake. “But I also don’t want to assume the wrong thing. …I can’t afford that. Not after everything I’ve already been through--everything _we’ve_ been through, Miller.

“And, if it turns out that we both have feelings for each other, there’s a lot of caution we need to take, for a lot of reasons.”

Relief slowly replaced the fear in Ellie’s gut. Despite his earnestness, he was being almost comically awkward.

So she took the first step, to lighten his load. “I meant them,” she said firmly, unflinching.

Time stretched between them then, seconds twisting into hours and days and years and milliseconds. The inspector’s heart was hammering against his sternum like a wrecking ball on crank.

Two people on a pendulum, but which way would it swing?

_Sod it,_ thought Hardy suddenly, perhaps emboldened by the strangeness of the circumstances. The crushing despair he’d felt when reading the texts that morning rose up in his mind again, and however scared he might have been of getting his already battered heart crushed yet again, he was suddenly even more afraid he’d never get another chance. _It’s now or never._

He inhaled deeply through his nose, head darted across the small space between them, and pressed his lips against hers.

At first Ellie twitched back in surprise just the slightest, but before Hardy could pull away in confusion, she grabbed the sides of his head and returned the kiss, just as hard— _oh_ lord _did she want him!_ —and desperate, world falling away beneath her feet. Hardy locked his arms behind her again, pressing their bodies together, briefly came up for air, and kissed her again, stunning Ellie with the depth of raw _need_ in his hands, his lips, his tongue. She responded in kind, raking her fingers through his thick brown hair, and felt him tremble against her and inhale a shaky breath full of her scent.

After what seemed like ages, his touch reluctantly softened, and ever so gently Hardy pulled away, locking eyes with hers as he did so. They were both breathing hard, equally surprised at each other. “That answer enough for you?” he murmured, hardly above an exhalation. Ellie, still stunned, could only nod weakly. 

And then he promptly pushed her away and expelled his coffee onto the grass beside the door. Mood effectively broken, Miller stared at him in consternation and couldn’t keep from asking, “Bloody hell, was it that bad?” 

He straightened up, swiped a hand across his mouth, and fixed her with a classic unamused glare. “I don’t handle strong emotions very well.” Ellie caught a note of woundedness in his tone, his eyes, and was promptly chagrined. 

“Gee, who would have thought?” she quipped in lieu of apology, digging around in her bag for hand sanitizer for him. 

Miller’s phone buzzed just after he handed it back. A text from Jenkinson. _Are you two quite finished? This isn’t my day off, you know._ “Come on,” she said. “Jenkinson’s getting antsy.” Her face fell as she remembered the body waiting for them. 

“Brace yourself, sir,” Miller warned. “It’s not pretty.” 

Together they walked into the morgue. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What awaits Hardy in the morgue? And how will he react?

Miller entered the autopsy chamber with Hardy, but hung back to give him space to examine the body —and to avoid the nightmare material that would be his full body, ashen, unclothed and stitched up, on the cold metal table.

Even the examiner did a double-take when Hardy entered once properly cleaned and geared up, but quickly regained his composure and stood by as the inspector steeled his nerves, released a deep breath, and pulled the sheet away. 

He was nowhere near prepared for the sight.

As his own grey face greeted him on the table, brown eyes glassy and staring emptily into eternity, a wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm Hardy. He took a step back, bumping into the next table over, thoroughly rattled in a way he never had been before; to say that he felt he was having an out-of-body experience would be an understatement. For one terrifying second, he was utterly convinced that the body on the table was him, and he, standing up, was not. Both Jenkinson and the examiner reached to steady his swaying frame, but Hardy waved them away, gripping the table behind with the other hand and tilting his head back as he fought to pull air into his lungs and rescue his brain from the black fog that threatened to envelope him. It felt like forever but was only a few moments; soon enough he was able to regain control over himself and yank the analytical part of his brain into central command. He adjusted his gloves in a show of confidence he only really half felt, and stepped close to 

_his dead body_

the victim again.

“Toxicology results?” he demanded in clipped tones, examining every inch of the face, opening the mouth to see an unsettlingly perfect replica of his own teeth, down to the backward angle of his bottom incisors. 

“Should be in shortly, Inspector.”

“I want a sample of every piece of material from this head sent off for analysis,” he rattled off. “It’s obviously a collection of prostheses, or maybe a whole fabricated head, from a special effects studio. Did we determine cause of death?”

“Not yet. No external signs of trauma, no trace of any foreign substance on the body. The toxicology report should help determine the method, but I’d put the time of death between 7:30pm Friday and 12am Saturday morning. Ah, the body did have the fingerprints burned away, but I’ve sent tissue samples to the lab to identify the real victim.”

Hardy grunted in acknowledgement and moved on, shoving the tidbit about the fingerprints away for later. “The craftsmanship is excellent,” he mused. “Miller, we’re going to need to contact every prop shop in the vicinity for recent orders. Hopefully not outside the country.” He shook his head, exhaled through his nose. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if cause of death was overdose of an anti-arrhythmia medication.”

Heart still pounding, he pulled the sheet down to check the victim’s right hand—

There it was. A black glove identical to his. Gently, almost on autopilot, Hardy undid the clasp across the palm, and removed the article. 

An audible gasp escaped both Miller and Jenkinson; Hardy fought down a wave of bile, his own right hand clenching as if to protect the artificial fingers inside the black glove. This victim also had his little and ring fingers removed. Hardy scowled and demanded, “Have those cuts been examined for particulates and kerf marks?” 

“Of course,” the examiner replied, a tad irritably. “With all due respect, we _do_ know how to do our jobs, Inspector.” 

Hardy ignored the examiner's tone. If the _hand_ was mutilated to look just like his… 

“Mind if I turn him over?” Hardy asked grimly, unable to keep the apprehension from his face or tone. The examiner made a gesture of permission, and together they gently rotated the man prostrate, Hardy repositioning the head so the cheek lay against the table. 

“Brilliant!” Miller exclaimed, spotting the still-fresh tattoo on his left shoulder. “That’ll help us identify the victim!” 

But Hardy’s face was sheet-white. “That ink isn’t his,” he said quietly.

“It’s mine.” 

  
Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The face was one thing… but the tattoo… 

No one knew he had one. 

He’d never even told his _parents._

He was tearing off his mask and gloves before he could stop himself, spindly legs carrying him of their own accord out into the hallway and over the nearest rubbish bin, planting a hand on the cold wall to steady his swaying self.

Miller quietly approached after a few moments, concern written all over her face. “Are you alright, sir?” she ventured quietly, though it was quite clear he was anything but. His mouth worked silently, he shook his head; finally he managed to whisper, “No one knew I had that tattoo, Miller. No one.” 

His tone made her blood run cold. “Are we dealing with someone local, then?” she mused. “Someone with visual access into your bath? …Or maybe it’s someone from hospital who’s worked on you for something…”

Hardy took slow, measured breaths, trying to force his analytical self to the forefront, but there were too many feelings swirling around in there, what with Miller’s confession and the kiss and the seeing himself laid out—

He was stumbling away, outside

_the glove and the ink_

_and the fingers_

_the table THE TABLE_

he made it outside on weak legs, but no sooner had he burst into the sunlight than a hellish image rose unbidden into his mind’s eye, clear and sharp as his natural vision: the point of view he would see if he were really on the autopsy table—he saw the overhead lamp—the examiner above him, gripping rib spreaders

_SO COLD_

He was unconscious before he hit the ground. 

  
X. X. X 

  
Gradually Hardy swam up into consciousness, guided by the muffled sound of steady beeping. He exhaled with a faint groan, felt something stuck in the tips of his nostrils, and reached up with a weak hand to pull it out—

“Oop, not so fast, sir,” Miller’s voice floated to his foggy brain and he felt something—fingers?—on his wrist, gently pulling his arm back down to the bed. “Can’t have that out quite yet.” 

He grimaced. _Hospital._ But he was secretly relieved she was there. He turned his head toward the sound of her voice, trying also to remove himself from the too-bright light overhead. Luckily Miller interpreted his squinting and turned the light off; he relaxed his face and slowly opened his eyes to see her sitting there. 

“How long was I out?” he managed, grimacing again as he tried to push himself further upright. Miller graciously placed the bed remote in his hand and he raised the head to almost 45 degrees. 

“Almost an hour,” she replied gently, filling a cup from the bedside pitcher for him. “Lucky you didn’t crack your head on the pavement.” She poked a straw into the cup and handed it to the inspector, letting him hold it but keeping a hand just under it. He accepted the liquid gratefully and quenched his desert-dry throat. “No grapes?” he joked, giving Ellie a sleepy, medicated smile that made her heart flip. 

She grinned in response. “Wasn’t exactly a life-threatening situation, but if you’re going to insist, I can bring you some later tonight.”

Hardy looked alarmed. “Tonight?” he parroted. “How long are they keeping me?” 

“Overnight, for observation,” she said apologetically. Hardy groaned and tried in earnest to get up, but Miller pushed him back down. “Stop trying to escape or I _will_ smack you with said grapes,” she threatened. 

“If I wasn’t even unconscious for an hour—”

“Your blood pressure was awful!” she exploded, not removing her hand from his chest. “And your heart rate was through the roof! Tell me the truth, Hardy, when was the last time you ate? And I mean actual food, tea is not an acceptable criterion!”

Hardy was angry— _everyone always overreacted when it came to his bloody health!_ —and glared at Miller, but knew he wouldn’t be able to lie to her. She’d see through it in an instant. After a few panting breaths in which he otherwise stayed silent, he finally admitted, “Yesterday morning. Couple pieces of toast.”

Miller sighed and removed her hand, slumping back in the chair dejectedly. “Sir, you are this close to being medicaled out,” she revealed quietly. The inspector’s heart rate shot up. “Your blood tests came back with a host of deficiencies across the board and your body weight is too low, especially considering your heart condition.” Her gaze dropped to her lap for a moment. “They’re requiring you to see a nutritionist for the next six months.” 

“ _What??_ ”

“Please, sir, just go with it,” she sighed, fully exasperated, and propped her head on her palm, elbow perched on the armrest. “Jenkinson’s loath to let you go, and I don’t want anything else to happen to you either. This morning was bad enough.” Her heart clenched as she recalled the nurse's confirmation of her fears: being a mum, she’d noticed the fit of his once-suave shirts growing slowly but surely looser over time, cheekbones becoming sharper and more jutting over the hollow jowls he kept attention off of with his beard. Whatever was going on, it was clear he was losing weight he couldn’t afford to, but how exactly does one approach such a subject with their superior?

“Is she going to?” Hardy demanded quietly but intensely.

“Only if you refuse to see the nutritionist.” Finally Miller looked at him again, gaze filled with a tired sadness. Recalling their passionate osculation earlier, Hardy was suddenly ridden with guilt. He was the first to break the look, eyes dropping to the far end of the bed. He sighed through his nose. “Fine,” he muttered after a long moment of silence, not missing the flash of gratitude that passed across the sergeant’s face. He stared at her again and kept silent until she looked at him. Then:

“Only if you bring me my bloody grapes, woman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments, kudos, etc 🥰🥰 it's heartwarming to know when people enjoy my stories (:


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